As Time Goes By
by samtherineshipper223
Summary: A story about the book the Scavenger by JL Willow. Set four years after Samuel enters witness protection. Once again, our main characters find themselves needing saving. But really, who's saving who? SamuelxCatherine, multiple OCs.


Hey! All credit for the original amazing story and characters goes to JL Willow and Nebula Press lol. This is just my interpretation of the story. Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoy!

My fingers hover over the keyboard. Half of me badly wants to type it in to the search engine. It's the same half that wanted to fall into his arms that last day, it's the fifteen year old girl still inside me who wanted to believe he was her sunshine. But another part of me wants to let this go. Pretty nineteen year old girls should date. Pretty nineteen year old girls should dance, they should go to parties where there might be drugs, they should fall in love with boys with warm hearts and boys without hearts at all. They should tear this napkin up and throw it out, and get over their high school boyfriend, and live lives that are loud and vivid and happy. But for four years, I've been stuck staring at this haunting napkin. A napkin. A ripped napkin with half an address scribbled on it. That's all I have to show for my first and only real relationship. The playbill left in the theater, the corsage withered and dead, the memories blurry with the soft rose gold tint of time. But even this napkin betrayed me, a tease of reconciliation lacking a city, state, or zip code. I close my eyes. However much I wish I could be like my girlfriends, giggling resilient happiness, I'm not. And that's enough. I type the address into the search bar. 837 Freeman Lane.

There are eight different Freeman Lanes in America. Massachusetts, New Jersey, Maine, New York, Georgia, West Virginia, and two in Pennsylvania. Some more googling informs me that five of these don't use numbering systems that go up to 800, so I'm left with three- Maine, Georgia, and Pennsylvania. It could be any of them. I close my eyes, and maybe for the first time since he's left, I feel like I can see him- shovelling snow in Maine, building a crackling fire to keep out the cold, or in warm Georgia, working at a mom and pop grocery store. Or even Pennsylvania, living in the Philly suburbs, buying produce at a farmers' market every Sunday. I'd like to think he's different now that he's straightened himself out. I imagine him with a respectable job. Every month, he sends money back to his parents. He doesn't wear sweatshirts anymore, only soft pastel button ups. He has an apartment, or a cozy little cottage, and he's happy. I imagine him happy, because I can't imagine him any other way. It hurts me to think his life isn't working out. Maybe he's at college. I can see him rushing down a street, bag slung over his shoulder, travel cup of coffee in hand, trying to get to a 9 am lecture. The Samuel I imagine wants to make something out of his life.

* * *

Waiting tables sadly doesn't earn you jack. Nor does it have a very comprehensive medical plan. In fact, the medical plan only covers the package of bandaids in the kitchen. Sadly enough, these haven't exactly proven effective. An hour of psychotherapy, three hours of physical therapy, prescribed hits of Zoloft and bottles of little blue pain pills I buy in dark alleys add up to more than can be replaced by a bandaid and more than can be covered by tips. Well, okay. It could probably be covered by tips if I had boobs. So I wait tables by night, and by day, I starve, and look for someone willing to hire a disabled high school dropout and pay him a living wage, maybe even enough to send money home to my parents. While witness protection offered me little other than a new name, it did offer me the ability to have a relationship with my parents without them depending on me.

I'm not supposed to communicate with them at all, but by some miracle, I receive cards and presents every year on my birthday and Christmas. From them, I've gleaned that they've both gotten jobs at local businesses, and are supporting themselves comfortably. They go to AA meetings together. My mother has taken up knitting, and she sends me sweaters. I'll admit that part of my current economic misfortune is because of them. I had money saved up from dealing for a while, money that Frank had paid me as well as money that I had skimmed off the top. When I went into witness protection, I divided my savings, and gave the lion's share to my parents, only keeping enough to get myself started. I don't regret giving them the money. It would be nice to have something in the bank, but if I hadn't given them some money to start out and set them in the right direction, I don't think they ever would have recovered.

In some of their letters, they ask me to come home. Truthfully, I'm scared, and not of the drug lords that the government thinks I should be scared of. I'm scared that if I go home, things will go back to the way they used to be- me, providing all of our meals, and my parents, drunk off their asses 24/7. When I left, I pushed them out of the nest. To everyone's surprise, they flew.

I should probably try to fly too. I've been staring at the ceiling of my dingy one bedroom apartment for twenty minutes and I should either get up or take a nap. I decide to get up, and I swear, the minute I stand up, a raging headache hits me. I know what this is. I am currently probably the most lucid I've been in a couple months. I try to stay sharp for my shifts at the restaurant, but particularly grumpy customers and a certain irritatingly peppy waitress in your ear can drive you to a bottle of pills. I grab my cellphone- my flip phone, mind you- and begin dialing Brandon when a text comes through. Good. From him.

 _Corner of 27th and Peachtree in 30._

Thank god. I should be able to get there if I keep steady pace with the rest of the city- that is, if I jog. I rake my fingers through my hair, although I'm not sure who I'm trying to look nice for- my dealer? My head really does hurt. I jog down the stairs, I heard somewhere exercise is good for withdrawal. Opening the lobby door, I step into brisk November air. Hello, outside world. I'm Jack. Although you might also know me as Samuel.


End file.
